


half-open doors (between me & hope)

by firefliesandstarlight



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Popstar, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Popstar!Jaskier and Bodyguard!Geralt basically, Tags May Change, no beta we die like witchers, plus Yen as a member of the band & Jask's bff, slow burn: speedrun edition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefliesandstarlight/pseuds/firefliesandstarlight
Summary: When disaster gay popstar Jaskier finds himself in need of a bodyguard, he and Yennefer, his bandmate, bassist, and best friend, search out the Witchers--the best in the business--for help. The only agent available is Geralt Rivian, and Jaskier, well... love at first sight is more for songs, isn't it? Can't possibly be real.Oh, how wrong he is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70





	1. chapter 1

The door is locked. 

“Yen, I know we both were under the impression that the appointment was today, but are you sure it’s  _ actually _ Tuesday? Maybe we both got a bit too drunk the other night and it’s too late. Or too early. Either works. The  _ door _ is  _ locked _ .” 

“I’m aware the door is not opening, Jask, I can see you trying and failing to open it.” Yennefer, standing slightly to the right of Jaskier so she’s in the shade, puts a hand above her eyes. “I know it’s Tuesday. That is simply a fact. Only one of us exudes dumbass energy here, you know, and it’s not me.” 

Jaskier turns and sticks his tongue out at her. “People are staring, Yen. I do not like it when people stare at me.” 

“You play in front of thousands of people at least once a week!  _ They _ stare at you!” 

“Yeah, but I  _ choose _ for them to stare at me then. There’s a difference. Hey, what’re you-- no! Do not take my picture, Yen, please, I’m literally begging you--”

“Too late.” Yennefer grins and holds up her phone. “I’m thinking this is official-page worthy, yeah? Plenty of people will want to see the great Jaskier failing to pull open a door.” 

“I am not  _ failing _ , I’m just… oh, hey, remember what you said just now about me being a dumbass?” 

Yennefer doesn’t look up from her screen. “Indeed I do.” 

“You were right.” 

_ That _ gets a look of either barely contained or brilliantly portrayed surprise-- one can never be sure, with Yen. “Say that again, please, one more time.” 

“I refuse.” 

“Jaskier, my friend, you didn’t even admit I was right when you bought that guitar from a thrift store and it literally fell apart on the way home. I  _ told _ you it would break. I  _ told _ you. Could’ve saved you fifty bucks, but noooo.” Yennefer taps her screen one more time before shoving her phone back in her pocket. “So I would like to hear that again, please.” 

“I will not.” Jaskier steps forward and pushes the door open. “It was… it was a push door, Yen, it was literally… it says  _ ‘push’ _ , right here, in ridiculously large letters, I’m so fucking stupid… to be fair, though, you didn’t see that either, so technically we’re  _ both _ stupid.” 

“Mhmm.” Yennefer walks past Jaskier into the building, patting the top of his head as she goes. “What would you do without me?” 

“Crash and burn,” Jaskier says promptly, following her in. “Plus, I’d be missing my bassist.” 

The entryway of the building is nondescript. Sleek. One can almost call it drab, it’s so unornamented. The floors: cold, flat, and apparently concrete. The walls have a bit more color to them, if only because of the tapestry hanging on the far wall: a  _ W _ , embroidered on a rich purple background. 

Jaskier whistles. “This place is… damn.” 

Yennefer gives it an unimpressed sniff. “For the amount of money we’re about to give them, you’d think they’d have, like”--she makes an indecipherable motion with her hand--“ _ stuff _ .”

While Yennefer’s statement may have been ineloquent, she was almost entirely accurate. The only thing in the room, besides the tapestry, is a handleless door. There’s also a chair, but, as Jaskier observes, it’s barely a foot high, and clearly put there “as an afterthought”. 

“It acts as the opposite of welcoming,” he says, and Yennefer nods. 

“That’s an excellent point. It just makes everything more…”

“Imposing?”

“No. Inhuman.”

At Yennefer’s words, a chill settles in the room. They’ve both heard the rumors about these people, about their services, about the trials they’re said to go through. If the impossibly small chair is the most imposing thing Jaskier and Yennefer encounter today, they’re lucky. 

“Ah, the great musicians!” The door swings open from the inside, revealing a man in a neat suit and a bland red tie. “I will say, we don’t get a lot of your type. Actors, yeah, and sometimes, the rare politician, but not a lot of musicians. This way.” 

Jaskier is speechless. He follows the man, head on a swivel, taking in every detail of the hall he’s led down. Yennefer, too, is silent, but not awestruck; she’s cataloguing the route in her mind and tracking everything, down to the seams in the walls. 

“What, uh.” Jaskier lays three fingers on his own face, mirroring the scar on the other man’s. “What happened?” Yennefer swats at his arm, and Jaskier swerves out of her reach. 

“Training accident,” the man says, shockingly nonchalant. He smiles. “No need to look so worried. I’m perfectly healthy. Ah, here we are.” They stop in front of a door, as blank as the first. “Good luck.” 

Yennefer nods her thanks, and Jaskier murmurs something close to a “thank you”. The door swings open, and the two of them step inside-- the man stays in the doorway, and Yennefer, ever cautious, has a horrible feeling of being penned in. 

“Thank you, Eskel,” says a voice from inside the room, and Eskel nods and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. 

The room they’ve been left in screams old money, from the soft wood floor to the rich wallpaper and the stone fireplace on the side wall. Sitting behind a heavy wooden desk at the back of the room is a man, in a suit similar to Eskel’s: the only difference is, his tie is a pattern of green and brown, instead of solid red. 

“Welcome.” He stands and holds out a hand. “My name is Vesemir, and I will be your… liaison, shall we say, during your time here at Witcher.” 

“Witcher?” Yennefer asks, at the same time Jaskier says, “So  _ that’s _ what all those fancy W’s were for!” 

“Yes,” Vesemir says, chuckling lightly. He retracts his hand, not bothering to mention that he was expecting a handshake. To be fair, Jaskier and Yennefer aren’t really handshake-type people, for their own respective reasons. “Though those of us who spend copious amounts of time here affectionately refer to the place as Kaer Morhen.” 

“Any particular reason?” Yennefer asks mildly, strolling around the room, hands hovering over various knickknacks and old books. 

“It means something along the lines of Old Sea Stronghold, I believe, and while we don’t exactly have a sea around here, this is an old stronghold. Been in the family for generations.” Vesemir, having trouble keeping track of both Yennefer and Jaskier--who is lovingly caressing every single music-related piece of memorabilia in the room, down to an old lute suspended on a stand by the fireplace--sits, and motions for Yennefer and Jaskier to do the same. “What can we do for you today?” 

“We need you to kill someone.” 

“Yennefer! We do  _ not _ need you to kill someone.” 

“Yes, we do. Valdo Marx is going to be the fucking death of me, Jask. I need him to die.” 

“Listen, I’m right there with you, but we are  _ not _ hiring a  _ service _ to  _ kill someone _ . Not only is that  _ illegal _ , I’m pretty sure, but if we want to kill Valdo Marx, all we have to do is wait until our next album drops. He’ll die of envy and embarrassment on the  _ spot _ .”    
  
Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest and slides down a bit in her chair. “Fine, you may have a point.” 

“Thank you.” 

Vesemir watches this interaction with bemusement written all over his face. “And I thought you two were as innocent as they come. So, besides killing someone, which we most certainly do not do--” he passes Yennefer a discreet brochure across the desktop, and Yennefer slides it into her pocket, catlike, under Jaskier’s simultaneously exasperated and amused glare “--what are you two needing done?” 

“We need a bodyguard.” 

“ _ You _ need a bodyguard, Jask, and only because even I can’t protect you from all the batshit fans anymore. Not to mention Valdo Marx. Did you know”-- she turns to Vesemir --“that just last week, we got a package from him containing a poisoned bottle of wine? He’s not even  _ creative _ about trying to kill us--”

“Same as he is with his music,” Jaskier says with faux-sadness, shaking his head. “A shame.” 

“--and he’s really bloody obvious about it, too! He left the bottle labeled cyanide  _ in the box _ . We literally… we opened it, and it literally said cyanide. We’re lucky he’s stupid.” 

“Have you ever considered,” Vesemir says slowly, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers, “that perhaps his prank was not intended to kill, but intended to waste?” 

Jaskier laughs. “What, he didn’t poison the wine, and he got all his satisfaction from knowing we poured out and threw away a bottle of perfectly good rosé? It wasn’t us who paid for the wine, mate, so he’s still stupid.” 

Vesemir smiles. “Never said he wasn’t. Both alternatives are just as...  _ lame _ , as the kids say.” 

“Nobody says that, dad,” comes a sullen voice from no discernable direction. Vesemir sighs as Jaskier jumps and Yennefer looks around wildly. 

“Lambert, what have we said about using the security cameras that the clients don’t know the exact location of to interject in conversations?” 

A beat of silence, then: “I shouldn’t.” 

“Exactly.” A few more seconds of silence, and then, when it’s clear that the unseen Lambert won’t be cutting in again, Vesemir continues. “So. A bodyguard, you say?” 

“Two.” Jaskier holds up two fingers. “One for me and one for Yen.” 

“How many times, Jask? I don’t need one.” 

“She needs one.” 

“Do not!” 

“Remember last fall? Do you remember? The goats will never be the same, Yen,  _ never _ .” 

“You promised you’d never speak of that again!” 

“Ah.” Jaskier gives Yennefer his best winning smile. “You need a bodyguard.” 

“Fine.” Yennefer looks at Vesemir and makes a cutting motion across her throat, mouthing, “ _ I do not need a bodyguard. _ ” 

“I can see you, you know.” 

“Shh. Think about… whatever it is you think about.” 

“Yen, you have admitted twice to being a mind reader, okay? Granted, both times you were drunk and trying to impress a girl, but that’s not the point. I am getting off track. Where the fuck was I?” Jaskier stares, unblinking, at Vesemir, and the only sound in the room is the tick-tick-tick of a clock until Jaskier says, “ _ Right _ ! Bodyguards. Two.” 

Vesemir pulls another brochure out of nowhere, this time handing it to Jaskier. “You’ll see we have several packages, all for reasonable amounts of coin. We’re the best in the city--arguably the world--and our Witchers are trained in most every combat situation.” 

“Are they trained in The Floor Is Lava?” Yennefer asks, with a completely straight face, and Vesemir pauses to consider. 

“I think I’ve heard them, er,  _ practicing _ that a few times,” he answers, just as seriously. “So, what do you think?” 

Jaskier, open-mouthed, cannot tear his eyes away from the brochure. “It’s, uh. Yen, quick, what’s a flattering adjective?” 

Yennefer, looking over Jaskier’s shoulder at the brochure, sighs. “How about  _ ‘expensive’ _ ?” 

“Yeah, that works. Expensive.” 

“We are the best,” Vesemir says grandly. 

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Nobody can possibly be  _ this _ good.” 

Jaskier points wordlessly at one of the packages, and a choking sound escapes his throat. “Oh my  _ god _ .” 

“Yeah, I know. Do you agree with me now that we only need one bodyguard?”

“But what if something happens to you? And it wouldn’t have happened if you’d had one?” 

“We could… share?” 

“I don’t think that’s how bodyguarding works, Yen.” 

“Fair enough, but we literally cannot afford two. We can… we can barely afford one, Jask,  _ look _ at this.” 

“I’m looking, trust me.” 

Vesemir clears his throat. “Can I ask, what led you to this institution? There are several, er,  _ cheaper _ options around.” 

“You had a good review,” Jaskier says absently, tracing the sum outlined on the brochure with his finger. “Holy  _ shit _ .” 

“Right. Well, how about this. All of our Witchers are the best--best trained, best behaved, et cetera--but our most renowned, a certain Geralt Rivian, just recently finished a contract. He should be available, and he will be more than capable of protecting the both of you.” 

“For the… for the price of one, right?” 

“Yes,” Vesemir says, eyes crinkling in a barely suppressed smile. “For the price of one.” 

“Can we discuss?” Yennefer asks, and the moment Vesemir nods, she and Jaskier are out of their chairs and in a huddle on the other side of the room, talking in rushed, low voices. 

They’re back in after a minute and a half of hushed discussion. “We’ll take it,” Jaskier says, as Yennefer sits back down in her chair and folds her hands in her lap. “When do we get to meet him?” 

“Right now, if you’d like, and if Lambert is still listening and thus knows to call him.” 

“I am,” comes the voice from the hidden camera. 

“Dude,” Vesemir says flatly, and Lambert sounds like he has a minor heart attack before he answers. 

“Please, please, just stick to normal speech. And that time I was  _ invited _ to talk, okay?” 

“That’s fair,” Jaskier says, and when the hidden camera says, “ _ Thank _ you!”, he gives the air a thumbs up. 

The door creaks open, and Eskel appears in the doorway again, the only difference in his appearance being his now mussed hair. “Geralt,” he says, by way of explanation, and Vesemir nods wisely as if this is all he needs to hear. 

“Jaskier, Yennefer, if you will? Eskel will show you to the… well, in any other place, it would be classified as Geralt's office, I believe. Thank you for your visit and your business, and we’ll talk about payment once we’ve finalized your arrangement.” 

Jaskier walks to the door, and when Yennefer doesn’t follow him, he turns and waves to her. “C’mon, Yen, we haven’t got all the time in the universe.” 

“I do.” She waves back, then points to Vesemir. “I’ll be right out, I just want to clarify a few things.” 

Eskel nods and starts walking, and Jaskier shrugs and follows. Before the door closes, Yennefer can already hear Jaskier chattering away-- now that the surprise and incredulity has worn off, he’ll be unstoppable, she knows. 

“So.” Vesemir starts restacking the brochures and putting them away. “What are your concerns?” 

“I don’t have any.” Yennefer sits back in her chair. “I figure you guys know what you’re doing, for that much money. You should, anyway. I want to talk to you about Jaskier.” 

“What to expect?” 

“That. And what not to.” 

“You’ve got me curious, Ms. Vengerberg, I’ll admit, and that doesn’t happen often.” 

“Yennefer, please. This stays between us, understand?” 

Vesemir nods. 

“Alright, good. Listen. I’ve been with Jaskier from the start. We’ve been friends for… a long time. We started the band in high school. Had the same dreams to make it big as everybody else did. The only difference was that we didn’t give them up. We went to college, and we did everything the way we were supposed to, and then instead of getting jobs and married and kids like all our classmates, we kept going. And you know the weirdest part?” 

“What?” 

“It worked. It fucking  _ worked _ . Snuck up on us, but we did it. Went from shitty bars to sold-out concerts in a heartbeat.” 

“May I ask: why do you need a bodyguard service, then? You must have private security already, at this point.” 

Yennefer shakes her head. “We hired some for the concerts, as necessary, you know? But usually we just used the venue’s services. Jaskier… he thinks we’re getting bodyguards--or  _ a _ bodyguard, that is--for the both of us. As a precautionary measure.” 

“He’s wrong?” 

“He’s bloody oblivious, is what he is. Nobody pays attention to the backup-singer-slash-bassist. But the lead singer? Out there in the spotlight, over and over, twice a week or more? He’s the one who needs the protection. For all his ego, he’s stupidly modest. Doesn’t think anyone thinks him important enough to go after.

“What I’m saying is, expect the crowds, expect the fans, expect the lights and the confusion and the rush, just like everybody else. But don’t expect him to follow you blindly.” Yennefer stands and brushes her hands on her jeans. “He’s good at performing. But he’s awful at keeping that… I don’t want to say  _ confidence _ , he’s confident enough…” 

“I know what you mean.” Vesemir stands, too, and holds out a hand for Yennefer to shake. This time, she does. “Oddly enough, Geralt is the same way. I think it’ll work out just fine.” 

“Good. Thank you.” Yennefer turns to go, but at the doorway, she stops. “One last thing.” 

“Sure.” 

“Do you have any discounts?” 

-

Meanwhile, Eskel and Jaskier are having a grand old time. 

“Do you  _ really _ play the harpsichord?” 

“I do.” Eskel straightens his tie, looking immensely proud of himself. “We all had to study something, quote, ‘fun’ during training, to offset the violent nature of the rest of it all, I guess.” 

“And you chose harpsichord?” 

“Yep.” 

“Damn. If you ever quit this job, let me know. I’ve never had a  _ harpsichord _ in my band before.” 

“Will do, though I have a horrible feeling I’ll die doing this job,” Eskel says, though his grin gives away his humor. “We’re just about here. First door coming up on your right is Geralt’s office.” 

“He has an office? Fancy.” 

“We all do. He just likes to make an entrance.” 

“But I’ll be the one entering.” 

“That’s very true. An impression, then. You can only make a first impression once.” 

“Don’t I know it.” 

Eskel pats Jaskier on the back. “Don’t be nervous, my friend. He’s just Geralt.” 

“Yeah, but… well, if he’s anything like you, it’ll be fine.” 

“Nice, you mean?” Eskel says, and Jaskier laughs. 

“Yeah.” 

“He isn’t anything like me. Good luck.” 

And then Jaskier blinks, and Eskel just fucking disappears. 

“What? No, you can’t just leave like that! Eskel, mate, I thought we were friends.” Jaskier is talking to the air again, and he has a sneaking suspicion that there are hidden cameras in this hallway, too, and that he is being laughed at. If not by Eskel, then by Lambert, at the very least. “Fine.” He turns and faces the door. “Fine. This is fine. Why the fuck is my heart beating so fast?” 

He stares at the door--handleless, again--for what feels like forever. 

“Right. Okay. Here we go.” He taps on the door, one-two-three, the knock of a coward. He would chide himself for it, but the door swings open at his touch, and sitting behind the desk in this room is the most beautiful man he has ever seen. 

He wishes Yennefer were here. Actually, scratch that, no he doesn’t, because all she would do is laugh at the way he trips over his own feet, and he’s blushing enough already, thank you very much. 

“Jaskier?” the man says, not looking up from the papers he’s reading through. 

_ Oh, man, I wish someone like that would talk to me _ , Jaskier thinks, and then he realizes that someone exactly like that is, currently, talking to him, and he is taking twelve million years to reply. 

“Uh, yeah, that’s me!” He tries to save it with a peppy ending and a little wave. He saves nothing. 

_ Christ _ . 

“Pleasure to meet you.” The man sets down the papers and looks up at Jaskier. “Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the two chairs arranged in front of his desk. Jaskier engages in a silent internal battle, weighing the pros and cons of each, but eventually, he just gives up and sits in the one closest to him. 

“And you as well,” Jaskier says. “The bit about ‘pleasure to meet you,’ I mean, not about sitting, ‘cause you’re already doing that!” He laughs nervously, leg bouncing out of sight underneath the desk. “So I take it you are the infamous Geralt Rivian?” 

“Geralt, please.” Geralt folds his hands on his desk, and if Jaskier weren’t so caught up in Panic Gay Mode™, he might notice the way Geralt’s hands tremble, and his professional, noncommittal expression waver. 

“And I’m Jaskier, which I’m sure you already knew.” 

“Yeah, Lambert came down from the fucking ceiling again and-- I mean, I was informed, yes.” 

Jaskier, delighted to have broken through the facade, however unintentionally, sits up straight in his chair. “The cameras, right? With the microphones? This Lambert fellow pulled that on us in Vesemir’s office, too, it was… I don’t want to admit that I was surprised, seeing as how he is probably listening right now, so let’s just say it was  _ unexpected _ .” 

“Let’s,” Geralt smiles, and it takes all of Jaskier’s self control and a bit of the reserve he siphoned off of Yennefer not to melt in his chair. “You’re interested in the bodyguarding services we offer, then?”

“Mhmm.” 

“Funny, I could’ve sworn Lambert said something about assassination.” 

“Ah, yes, that was Yennefer. And no, we do not need an assassin. She’s perfectly capable of that herself, we might as well save the money.” Jaskier says, but when Geralt just looks confused instead of amused, he backtracks quickly. “That was a joke! A joke! God, does this place suck the humor out of you, as well as the color? Killing people is  _ illegal _ , Geralt, of which I and my bandmate are perfectly aware and compliant.” 

“This’ll be fun,” Geralt mutters, mostly to himself. Jaskier can’t tell if there’s sarcasm there or not. “What’s wrong with my color?” 

“Nothing! Nothing, you’re--” Jaskier stops himself just short of saying  _ perfect _ . “Your hair is cool, honestly, with all the… the white, and stuff. And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t notice your eyes”--Jaskier gives Geralt a thumbs up--“also lovely. But your  _ tie _ , Geralt, your  _ tie _ . Grey, really? That’s so…  _ meh _ .” 

“ _ Meh _ .” Geralt looks like he’s smiling, Jaskier decides; even though his face hasn’t moved a muscle, his eyes give him away. “Never had a tie described that way. Meh. What an interesting term. I’ll have to use it on Lambert, someday, provided he’s not listening right now.” Pausing, whether for effect or because he genuinely wants to know, Geralt stares directly at a seemingly empty corner of the ceiling. When Lambert doesn’t interject, Geralt says, in a mock stage whisper, “He’ll be  _ devastated _ ,” and winks. 

Internally, Jaskier’s mind looks something like this:  _ AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH _

Externally, he’s as cool as… well, as cool as Yennefer, leaning forward and engaging as if there isn’t a mini manifestation of his thoughts running around inside his head, banging pots and pans and screaming something about light hazel eyes and love. 

He and Geralt talk for what could be five minutes or three days-- neither of them are entirely sure, though Geralt is still doing his best to pretend he’s in charge. They’re both saved from falling deeper into the inescapable realm of flirt-adjacent conversation by Yennefer, not thirty minutes after Jaskier sat down, throwing open Geralt’s door and plopping down in the remaining open chair like it’s hers. 

“Your colleague-- Eskel? He’s a good wingman,” she says, and Geralt blushes a deeper red than Eskel’s tie and mumbles something that sounds like ‘ _ I don’t know what you mean _ ’. Yennefer grins. “So! How’s it going in here? Bonding, are we?” 

Jaskier leans back in his chair. “I’d say so. Geralt was just saying that he might consider investing in a new tie.” 

Yennefer gives Geralt’s current tie a scathing look. “Good, because that one’s awful.” 

“Hey!” Geralt puts a protective hand over his tie, and Jaskier hones in on the silver ring on his index finger, shaped like the head of a wolf. “My tie does not deserve this slander. It is perfectly serviceable, thank you very much.” 

“As a rag, maybe,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier laughs. 

“I’d apologize, Geralt, but unfortunately I think our opinions here are the same. I’ll mail you a new tie, yeah? Can’t have you coming to work in  _ that _ on your first day.” Jaskier is still looking at the ring out of the corner of his eye, already weaving half a dozen stories around its existence.  _ God, this’ll make a good song.  _ He’s already drumming out a tune on the desktop. 

Yennefer knows this as their cue to leave. “It’s been a pleasure, Geralt. You start next week, yeah? See you then.” 

“The pleasure was all mine,” Geralt says, standing and shaking Yennefer’s hand. “I’ll be sure to go tie shopping between now and then, I promise.” 

“He doesn’t break promises,” says a voice from the doorway. Yennefer and Jaskier turn to see Eskel, leaning against the door, looking smug. “You guys are miracle workers, I don’t know how you did it. We’ve been trying to get him to buy something other than gross gray ties for  _ years _ .” 

“Not  _ years _ , exactly--” 

“ _ Years _ .” 

“Fine. Years.” Geralt steps around his desk and offers a hand to Jaskier. “See you next week, then.” 

Jaskier shakes Geralt’s hand and smiles. “I look forward to it.” 

Eskel leads Yennefer and Jaskier back down the hall and deposits them in the room with the purple tapestry. “It’s been lovely meeting you. Good luck.” 

“Good… luck?” But Eskel is gone, and they’re left, feeling terribly small, standing alone in a room that seems to get bigger by the second. 

“Right, then! Let’s get out of here, shall we?” Yennefer offers her arm to Jaskier, who loops his through it. 

“We shall.” 

“Remember to pull the door, this time around.” 

“Oh, shush.” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, typical.” Jaskier grins. Yennefer rolls her eyes back, and they step out into the bright afternoon and leave the Witcher building behind them. 


	2. chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **yennefer:** they may be dumbasses, but they're _my_ dumbasses  
>  **geralt & jaskier, in unison:** _hey_
> 
> chapter warnings: one instance of a gunshot; nobody gets hurt, and there's no real focus on either the shooting or the shooter, but tw for shooting/gunshot. more specifics in the end notes. stay safe yall <3

Now, this… this is what Yennefer loves about her job. 

The elevated stage, chrome black and polished to a shine (if you ignore the scuffs and bootprints,) is nice, sure. The thousands,  _ tens _ of thousands of fans, screaming along to the lyrics she and Jaskier--well, mostly Jaskier, but if anyone asks, she  _ was _ the inspiration behind their hit single,  _ Her Sweet Kiss,  _ no doubt about it--wrote… they’re brilliant, don’t get her wrong. But it’s the oddest feeling in the world, the shivers up her spine, watching all those people, with all their own lives, their own worries, their own paths, crammed into a stadium together, united by music she and Jaskier are playing. It’s the oddest, and the best. 

Everything is so loud, so bright, so foreign, even after all these months that are quickly turning into years. Yennefer would be overwhelmed by it all, drowning under spotlights and glare, if it weren’t for the instrument in her hands, tethering her to the ground. She tosses her head, a clever move she devised long ago to keep her earpiece in without having to touch it, and the crowd roars. 

Jaskier, resplendent in one of his many showy doublets-- Yennefer fondly refers to them as his “sparkle clothes,”-- turns and gives her a wink. Yennefer smiles back, a silent communication, invisible within all the noise. If the fans catch it, neither of them care; there’s no way any of them know what they’re saying. 

It’s a  _ you good? _ at the same time as it’s a  _ you’re doing good _ . It’s encouragement wrapped in snark wrapped in genuine caring wrapped in Jaskier’s trademark showmanship, and as the bridge of the song crescendos and Jaskier hits the high note perfectly, Yennefer’s playing matches his, and the fans lose their bloody  _ minds _ . 

“Thank you, thank you, oh, god, you guys… you’re too good to us, you’re too kind, thank you so much…” As Jaskier starts his in-between-songs monologue, strumming his guitar slowly and keeping the energy in the venue up, Yennefer flexes her fingers and watches him. 

He’s such a natural, she knows, can see it in his posture, hear it in the tone of his voice. He’s a master at the in-person communication, at the face-to-face, at making everyone near him feel important and seen, even if they’re three hundred feet away, faces washed out in the lights. Yennefer is the one who gets them online followers, who posts snapshots of their daily life with clever captions, pulling people in, catlike. Jaskier started following her lead on social media ages ago, and he pulls his weight--both of their quote-unquote “personal” pages have just as many followers each as their official band page, if not more--but as much as Yennefer wants to follow his lead with their personal interactions… She can hope all she wants, but there’s no way she’ll ever entrance a crowd like he’s doing now. 

“And with that, well… to all you yees and haws here today, I just want to thank you, on behalf of both myself and Yennefer, for being here, and… well, our last song of the night… I think you all know it, even though it’s only been out for a couple months…” 

At that, the crowd erupts into cheers so loud Yennefer is suddenly extremely grateful for her earpieces. She knows why, too: they’ve only released one song in the past few months, and it topped the charts for  _ weeks _ after it came out. 

Jaskier wrote it the day after they met Geralt Rivian. Yennefer did most of the music, but the lyrics… every word was a word Yennefer knew he wanted to say not to crowds, not to a recording studio mic, but to the man himself. 

He didn’t, though. Still hasn’t. It’s infuriating. They get to the top of the charts with his pure, unfiltered longing-turned-song, and he still doesn’t say a word to the man he sees daily. More than daily. Every minute he’s not on stage, more like. 

Jaskier strums the first few chords, and the crowd--Yennefer didn’t think it was possible--gets louder. 

Ten minutes later, covered in confetti and sparkles, fingertips raw from playing, Yennefer and Jaskier stumble backstage, drunk on the cheers and the wild success of their closing night in this city. 

“Did you… did you _see_ the way I just… I fucking… I missed like _three_ _chords_ , Yen, I was off by half a second for a bit of the opening, it was so _jarring…_ god, all this must be getting to me. When can we take a vacation, again?” 

Yennefer laughs. “Jask, you sounded fine. Better than fine. You were… don’t poke fun, but you were really bloody good.” 

“Was not!” Jaskier nudges Yennefer’s arm, grinning. “But thanks.” 

“It’s what I’m here for.” 

“That, and being the most remarkable bassist in the universe. Yen, did you not  _ hear _ yourself? You were  _ amazing _ .  _ Better _ than amazing. Is there a word better than amazing? I can’t think of it, but if there is, that’s you.” 

Yennefer can’t help but grin back. “Thanks.” She and Jaskier do their classic terrible handshake-- it started out as an awkward occurrence, if they’re being honest (Jaskier went for a high five, Yennefer went for a fist bump, they both switched halfway and ended up with a weird sort of dance), but it’s become their  _ thing _ . “Are you prepared for an after-show picture for the page or are you  _ too sweaty _ ?” 

Jaskier laughs. “That was  _ one time _ , Yen, one time!” 

“And I will never let you forget it.” 

“And that’s what I love about you. Where’s your phone?” 

“Uh… around here somewhere. Yours?” 

“Yen, when have I ever known where my phone is?” 

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair. You really should start keeping track of it, you know.” 

“Yeah, I really should. Uhm… if there’s… do you think it’s in my bag? Do I even have a bag?” Jaskier starts patting his pockets, utterly unaware of the fact that the pants he is wearing do not have any. No phone sized ones, anyway. “Where the fuck is my bloody phone? Are you… Yen, are you looking for yours?” 

Yennefer yells back from the next room over, knee deep in couch cushions, looking for her phone. “Yeah, I am. No luck, though.” 

Jaskier makes a noise like an annoyed deer. “Why are we so good at losing things?” 

“It’s the curse of the gays,” Yennefer says solemnly, coming back into the room empty-handed. “Speaking of…” 

“What? What?” Jaskier looks around wildly. “Do I have something on my face? Is there confetti in my hair? What is it?” 

From behind Jaskier, someone clears their throat. 

Jaskier jumps about a mile. 

“Jesus, Geralt! Every time!” 

“You’d think you’d be used to it by now,” Geralt says, barely containing a smile. “Or at least prepared for it.” He walks into the room, hands in his pockets, and sits down on a stray chair like it was he who was on his feet onstage for three hours. “You did good, out there.” Jaskier blushes, and Geralt clears his throat. “Er, both of you.” 

“Why thank you, Geralt, that means a lot,” Yennefer says, taking an overexaggerated bow. “Now, listen, I know we’ve got to get out of here at some point, but there are a hell of a lot of fans outside, probably swarming the door, so… what’s the plan?” 

Yennefer looks at Geralt expectantly, and, once he gets his blushing under control, Jaskier does, too. 

“What,  _ me _ ?” 

“Yes, you!  _ You’re _ the bodyguard!” 

“Ms. Vengerberg, I’m going to be completely honest with you-”

“Geralt, my man, how many times to I have to tell you: forget the stupid contract or whatever, it’s  _ Yennefer _ . Stop making me feel old.” 

“Yennefer. Usually you make the plans, and I just follow along and make sure you don’t die while you execute them.” Geralt shrugs. “Your plans aren’t half bad, either. Loads better than what  _ Lambert _ would come up with.” 

“Just because we hired Lambert as a temporary replacement for the  _ single day _ you were out sick does  _ not _ mean we do not love you more, Geralt,” Jaskier says, flopping down on the only other chair in the room dramatically. “He was literally the only other person available.” 

“Witcher. We’re Witchers.” 

“You’re  _ also _ a person, so shhhh.” Jaskier reaches out and holds up a finger over Geralt’s lips-- nevermind that he’s several feet away and his arm doesn’t reach that far, so it only looks like that from his perspective. To Yennefer, leaning against a wall on the other side of the room, it just looks like… well, actually, she’s not entirely sure. 

“Geralt, do you have your phone with you?” 

“Always.” 

“Can I borrow it?” 

“No.” 

“Pretty pretty please with two and a half cherries on top?” 

“Why not three cherries?” 

“Because. Pleassee?” 

“Fine.” Geralt holds out his phone, and Yennefer snatches it before he can change his mind. “What do you want it for?” 

“Nothing,” Yennefer says innocently, holding up the phone. “Smile!” 

Jaskier, still holding his hand out, scrambles to sit up in his chair and promptly falls off. “What?” 

“We needed an after-show picture for the page! I’ll add one of me, hang on…” Yennefer turns and holds up the phone, taking a picture of herself with Geralt, sitting calmly in his chair, and Jaskier, sprawled out on the floor, in the background. “I’m logging in to my account, Geralt, hope you don’t mind. I’ll erase it all, don’t worry.” 

“What are you saying?” Jaskier groans, making a feeble attempt to sit up and abandoning it halfway. “People are going to start thinking I have dumbass vibes, Yen, and as much as they would be right, our whole entire reputation hinges on my supposed suaveness.” 

“And my ethereal qualities. Don’t worry, Jask, people like to see famous people looking like them.” 

“I’m still in my sparkle clothes! They do not look excellent when they’re not under a spotlight!” 

Yennefer says, “Nobody cares” at the same time Geralt says, “ _ Sparkle clothes? _ ” 

“Shh.” Jaskier holds up his finger of silence again, and Geralt grins. 

“I’m using that term from now on, Jaskier. Whenever anyone asks what you’re doing, or where you are, the answer will always be ‘changing into his sparkle clothes’.” 

“And what if I’ve been kidnapped, huh? What if someone asks you where I am and you’ve just seen me blindfolded and tossed into the back of a van and driven off? What are you going to say  _ then _ , Geralt?” 

Geralt, a perfectly deadpan expression on his face, says, “You’re changing into your sparkle clothes.” 

Jaskier swats at Geralt’s leg--the only thing within his reach, since he’s still on the floor--and Geralt laughs. 

“Seriously, Jaskier, I’d never let them get that far. They’d be dead before they got out the blindfold.” 

“Aww, Geralt, you  _ do _ care about me,” Jaskier says, clutching his hands to his chest in a caricature of a swooning damsel. 

“You pay me so much money, Jaskier. If I didn’t stop you from getting kidnapped I’d fire  _ myself _ .” 

“Yeah, okay, you’re not wrong.” Jaskier sticks his tongue out at Geralt. “Doesn’t mean you don’t care about me though!” 

Geralt hums. 

“Haha! I’m right! Did you hear that, Yen? I’m  _ right _ !” 

Yennefer glances up from Geralt’s phone. “Congrats.” 

“Thank you, thank you very much.” Jaskier takes a mock-bow… as much as he can, anyway. 

“Done!” Yennefer hands Geralt’s phone back to him. “The very few people in this world who follow our page have now officially been informed that we survived the show.” She claps her hands together. “How do you feel about thai food?” 

Jaskier considers Yennefer’s suggestion for a few moments. “I was kind of thinking McDonald’s, actually.” 

“Of course you were. You know, we’re not starving artists anymore.”

“I  _ am _ a starving artist! I am  _ famished _ ! And I like McDonald’s.”    
  


“You  _ are _ aware that they--”

“Shh. Shhhh. You have told me of the horrors of the terrible horrible no good very bad McDonald’s food before. I am not afraid, my dearest Yennefer. I am nothing if not constantly craving McNuggets.” 

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Yeah, alright, well, I’m getting thai food. I hear there’s a good place around the block. We can take separate cars, meet back at the hotel in an hour or so?” 

Geralt nods. “Sounds good to me. I’ll walk you out and then come back for Jaskier.”

Jaskier gives a thumbs up from the floor. “See, Yennefer, you  _ do _ make the plans!” 

“Mhmm. What we’re paying  _ you _ for”--she tilts her head in Geralt’s direction--“I have no idea.” 

“He looks pretty,” Jaskier offers, and Geralt points to him as if to say,  _ he’s got a point. _

Yennefer shakes her head and smiles, muttering something that sounds like “ _ Hopeless _ .” 

“If you two change in the next ten minutes, we can be back to the hotel by one.” Geralt stands and brushes off his hands. “Ms. Ven-- Yennefer, I’m assuming you still have that disguise?” 

“I do.” 

“That really was a brilliant idea, Yen.” Jaskier starts his slow ascent up from the floor. “It works like a charm.” 

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Yennefer says, smiling as she sweeps out of the room. “I’ll be ready in five!” 

Jaskier creeps back up into his chair. “Would it be horribly terrible if I went to McDonald’s in my sparkle clothes?” 

“Yes,” Geralt says without hesitation. “I appreciate you admitting that they’re your sparkle clothes, though.” 

“I never denied it! I just didn’t want to be known as the Sparkle Clothes Man.” 

Geralt hums again. “Where’s your change of clothes?” 

“Duffel bag.” Jaskier pulls a worn bag out from underneath his chair. “I stowed it here before the show.” 

“Excellent.” Geralt pushes his chair until he’s facing in the other direction. “You have until Yennefer comes back in to get out of your sparkle clothes and into your disguise.” 

“Calling it a disguise is so much more fun than calling it what it is.” Geralt can hear, from his position facing the wall, Jaskier kicking off his shoes as he speaks. “It’s literally just a ratty old t-shirt, Geralt, one of the first ones the band ever made, and a cap. That’s literally it. I’m still in awe that nobody has recognized us yet.” 

“It’s a good bit of reverse psychology,” Geralt shrugs. “I’m thinking of suggesting it to Vesemir for future use. People are trained to recognize other people wearing sunglasses and fancy clothes at night as either douchebags or famous people. This way, you’re anonymous.” 

“I know,” Jaskier says, and Geralt hears an  _ oof! _ as he accidentally kicks the chair trying to pull on jeans. “I’m just amazed that it  _ works _ .” 

“Are you done yet?” Geralt starts to push his chair back around. “It’s been almost five minutes and to be honest, I’m getting bored.” 

“Almost almost almost!” Jaskier shrugs on a jacket and strikes a pose. “Ta-da! Done. Jaskier: Disguised.” 

“Perfect timing.” Yennefer reenters the room. She’s put her hair up and tied it back, and she’s wearing a shirt similar to Jaskier’s. “Alright, Geralt. Ready to escort me?” 

Geralt adjusts his chair one last time. “My lady.” 

“Mhmm.” Yennefer leads the way out of the room, leaving Jaskier alone with a duffel bag full of sparkle clothes and a whole lot of residual embarrassment. 

“Jesus  _ Christ _ .” Jaskier collapses back onto his chair. “How the hell did  _ I _ ever get a reputation for being  _ suave _ ? I’m the least suave person to ever exist. Ever.” He drags a hand down his face. “At least I’m getting McDonald’s, though. That’s always a plus.” 

Jaskier stands up in half a second when he hears Geralt’s footsteps walking back to the room. 

“You ready?” Geralt doesn’t come back in, just pokes his head in through the doorway. “Yennefer’s off to her thai food place, so it’s just us left for McDonald’s.” 

“Excellent!” Jaskier says, nearly wincing at the overabundance of enthusiasm in his voice. “Lead the way.” 

Geralt nods and turns to walk back the way he came, every other set of footsteps alternating between silence and an overexaggerated  _ step  _ noise. 

“You’re quiet.” Jaskier walks a few steps behind Geralt, holding onto the duffel bag slung over his shoulder with quickly whitening knuckles. 

“It’s my default.” 

“Yeah, I figured. All those quiet car rides over the past couple months, yeah? Did you learn silence from experience, or are you just, I dunno… introverted?” 

“If I say the first, will you laugh?” 

“Never. I’ve seen your scars.” 

“I  _ told _ you not to shake me awake, Jaskier, that was literally your fault.” 

“Never said it wasn’t! I’m just never going to get over how oversized your sleep shirts are. Almost made you look small.” 

“And reveal too much of my stomach when I’m forcefully awoken and I take a swing at my attacker, I know, I know,” Geralt says, but he can’t help smiling. 

“You told me that you don’t function well without coffee! I bought you coffee, and it was getting cold, so naturally…” Jaskier bumps his shoulder with Geralt’s. “I’ll never forget your coffee order, though. Never ever. You’ve ensured that. It’ll be my last thought when I’m an old and dying man.” 

Geralt snorts. “You’ll be immortal long before then.” 

“That’s true, music does live forever.” 

“No, I mean, you’ll stumble into an old apothecary or something and chug a potion without asking what it is, and you’ll wake up thirty years later and realize you don’t even have laugh lines.” At the look on Jaskier’s face, Geralt laughs and adds, “I’m joking, Jaskier. I’d be honored to have my coffee order be your last coherent thought.” 

Jaskier grins. “I’m happy to oblige.” Internally, he facepalms--‘ _ happy to oblige,’ man, reall _ y?--but externally, he carries on. “This hallway is longer than I remember.” 

“I’m taking you to the other exit, in case someone spotted me and Yennefer coming out and decided to wait around.” 

“That’s… really smart, actually. Thanks.” 

“It’s my job,” Geralt says with a noncommittal shrug, but he’d be beaming if he wasn’t a professional. “Right, well, we’ve hit the door. You first, or me?” 

“Together?” Jaskier suggests, and Geralt looks at the door, then at Jaskier, then back at the door. He raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t think we’d fit.” 

“You first, then. Wait, no, me. If someone’s waiting or something, I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Jaskier.” 

“Yes?” 

“You… you do know why they call it a  _ bodyguard _ , right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah, it’s because my whole entire purpose is to guard your body. It’s right there in the name. I’ll go first.” 

Jaskier rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, yeah, alright, fair enough. Good luck.” 

“Thanks,” Geralt says, though he looks a little confused. He pushes open the door and steps outside. 

Nothing happens. Nobody walking by even notices him. 

He makes a motion with his hand, and Jaskier steps outside beside him. 

“Quiet night,” he says, voice low. “Where’d you leave the car? McDonald’s is calling, my friend.” 

Geralt, scanning the rooftops, just in case, points to the curb. “It’s over there. I’m driving.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jaskier starts walking, across the flow of pedestrian traffic, in the direction Geralt pointed to. 

The crowd, for a shining, split second, seems to go silent. 

Jaskier trips over his own feet and stumbles, half a moment, head bobbing underneath crowd level. Something soft, a gentle huff of air, whizzes by his head. His hair flutters. 

“Down!” Geralt yells, and suddenly there’s a  _ bang _ and everyone is screaming, the whole crowd, running hands up, so loud that Jaskier thinks his eardrums might split. 

Something’s on top of him. Someone? There’s breathing in his ear and Jaskier can feel the pavement, cold beneath him, but all he can seem to focus on is the crack in the sidewalk, lined with sprigs of weeds.  _ Look, there’s a little ant _ , a voice in his ear says, and he reaches out to touch it but whoever is on top of him yanks his hand away and whispers something, something urgent, something about glass. 

Sirens sound in the distance. The weight moves off of Jaskier, and he rolls over, back to the pavement, every inch of his spine against the hard ground, prickly rocks digging in between his vertebrae. 

“Are you okay?” a voice, familiar but wrong, asks from very very far away. “Jaskier,  _ are you okay? _ ” 

Jaskier nods. At least, he thinks he nods. There’s something sticky on his back and it’s gross, it’s bugging him, he wants it to  _ go away _ \--

“Don’t!” Geralt, standing over Jaskier, kneels. “Don’t touch. Hang on a second, Jaskier, don’t move, I don’t know if they’ll try again.” 

“Try again to what?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “Listen, are you hurt?” Jaskier mumbles something that sounds like  _ ants _ , and Geralt sighs. He’s amazed, looking down at his hands as they do a cursory inspection of Jaskier’s arms, how still his fingers are, how calm he must look, when inside his heart has turned into a battering ram and is beating so hard it may as well have stopped. 

“What’re you doing?” Jaskier doesn’t try to swat away Geralt’s hands as he glances over his chest, his neck. “‘M fine, Geralt, ‘s fine.” 

“I have to be sure,” Geralt says, and Jaskier doesn’t argue. “I have to be sure. Can you turn over? Careful of the glass.” 

“I can just stand up.” When Geralt makes an expression similar to one of appal, Jaskier laughs softly and props himself up on his elbows. “If they were going to take another shot, they’d’ve done it by now.” 

Geralt hums. “I’ll give you that one.” He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, which is that the shooter could be waiting for a number of reasons, all highly unpredictable. 

“See? Not a  _ complete _ idiot.” Jaskier holds out a hand and Geralt takes it, pulling him to his feet. “Damn, pavement really got all over me, huh?” Jaskier, busy brushing off his shirt and jeans, doesn’t notice the look of dawning horror on Geralt’s face. He’s just chattering away--“I couldn’t see a thing, Geralt, are you sure you’re alright? Nobody was hurt?”--but when he gets to his shoulders, hand poised to dust off the dirt, he freezes. “Geralt?” 

Geralt reaches out toward Jaskier’s shoulder. He doesn’t touch him, but his hand hovers, inches away. A slight tremor at his fingertips exposes the flash of fear--however brief--that swells in his gut. 

“Geralt?” 

“There’s… there’s blood, you’re bleeding.” 

“Geralt, I  _ know _ that, I know, I…” 

Maybe it’s the panic scrawled on Jaskier’s face, or the way the muscles in his neck tighten with the effort of keeping himself together, but something kicks Geralt back into gear. 

“Right, okay. This is nothing to worry about, Jask, you understand? We’re walking to the car now, it’s right over here, come on.” Geralt guides Jaskier to their vehicle, a sleek black sedan parked at the curb, untouched by broken glass or bullets. “Passenger side door, here we go.” 

“This is the nicest you’ve ever been to me,” Jaskier says, a touch of his usual humor coloring the gray of his tone. “I should start spontaneously bleeding out of my shoulder more often.” 

“You’re not spontaneously bleeding,” Geraly says, voice gruff. “You probably just caught some of the broken glass. Calm down.” 

“I’m not  _ not _ calm.” 

“Who said I was talking to you?” 

“What, you’ve never seen a wound before?” 

“I’ve seen plenty of wounds. Just, usually… usually they’re mine, is all.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier doesn’t argue when Geralt closes the passenger side door and walks around the car to the driver’s side. Usually, he’d at least  _ bug _ Geralt about getting to drive, but this doesn’t seem like the occasion for it. 

When Geralt gets in the car, he’s holding a first aid kid. “From the trunk,” he says, by way of explanation, and then he gets to work, peeling back the shirt from Jaskier’s shoulder and inspecting the wound. 

“How long have I got, doc?” Jaskier asks dryly, and Geralt poorly conceals his laugh with a cough. 

“You’ll live.” He pulls a stack of different bandages out of the kit. “As far as I can tell, whatever glass was in there is already gone, and it’s a long way from needing stitches, so a couple butterfly bandages should be plenty.” 

“Remind me, again, what medical training you’ve got?” 

“Did you not read page twenty four of the contract?” 

“Will you quit if I say no?” 

Geralt doesn’t bother concealing his laugh--buoyed by a bit of relief--this time. “I will not quit.” 

“Then, no, I did not.” 

“Well, if you  _ had _ , you’d know that if I really wanted to, I could technically just switch over to being a doctor.” 

“That good, huh?” 

“‘ _ Good’ _ is debatable, but I went through all the training.” Geralt pauses, aligning a butterfly bandage over Jaskier’s cut. “Well, I say ‘ _ all’ _ .  _ The bare minimum _ . When I joined I was more interested in the bit about the swords.”

“You’re really not inspiring confidence in you right now.” 

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Geralt finishes sticking the bandages onto Jaskier’s shoulder. “Good as new! I think we can stop at McDonald’s and then head straight back to the hotel, yeah?” 

“Geralt?” 

“Hmm?” 

“What have I told you about that phrase?” 

“What, McDonald’s?” 

“No…” Jaskier looks around, as if they’re being watched, and then whispers in a dramatic undertone, “‘ _ straight back to _ ’ places.” 

“Right. And then gayly back to the hotel.” Geralt pulls Jaskier’s seatbelt on for him, then buckles his own. “Happy now?” 

“Delighted.” Jaskier wriggles in his seat. “McDonald’s, here we come!” 

“I should have gone with Yennefer,” Geralt grumbles, but he’s smiling, and he drives just as fast as Jaskier requests. They get to the closest McDonald’s drive thru in half the time estimated by the GPS. 

Twenty minutes later, Geralt pulls into the hotel parking lot and parks the car. Jaskier is back to his usual chatty self--not that he ever wasn’t, mind--and Geralt lets his voice comfortably fade into the background, offering a “hmm” or a noise of affirmation when required. 

“See you tomorrow, then, Geralt?” Jaskier says, when they’ve made it to the right floor. He’s standing, hand on the door handle to his room, and Geralt thinks--not consciously, just…  _ observationally _ \--that, with the bloodstain on his shoulder and the smudges of dirt still all over him, Jaskier has the look of a man returning from battle. 

_ He did _ , a little voice in Geralt’s head whispers.  _ Sort of. _

“See you tomorrow, Jaskier. I’m out here if you need me.” 

Jaskier nods, and the door to his room opens a little bit. “Don’t you ever sleep, Geralt?” 

Geralt smiles. “I hibernate. Six out of the twelve months of the year. I’ve got my hibernation leave coming up in a few weeks, you know.” 

“Now I  _ know _ that wasn’t in the contract,” Jaskier says with a tired grin. “Get some rest, Geralt. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He’s halfway through the doorway when he stops and turns back, just enough for Geralt to see just how dark the circles under his eyes really are. “And, uh, thanks. For… for everything. Thank you.” 

“Anytime,” Geralt says softly, and he finds that he means it. 

Jaskier gives Geralt a little wave before he closes the door. Geralt’s left standing alone in the hotel hallway at one in the morning, one of the few liminal spaces left that has an effect on him. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he stares into the whorls of the endlessly and unidentifiably repetitive carpet spinning purple and tan spirals into his eyelids, thinking not of his room across the hall, or the sweet release of sleep, but of the look on Jaskier’s face when he realized something was wrong, and the way he said Geralt’s name in lieu of a call for help. 

_ The police will be all over this in the morning, _ the sensible bit of Geralt’s brain sings.  _ You should get some sleep so you can be helpful enough that they won’t have to wake Jaskier. _

Geralt doesn’t have to tell the sensible part of his brain to shut up, because it’s quickly overwhelmed by Jaskier’s smile, and his laugh, and the way his face lights up when he sees Geralt in the front of a crowd, keeping him safe. 

It’s well into two a.m. when Geralt realizes he hasn’t really moved from his post outside his door, just in case Jaskier’s creaks open and it turns out that he’s needed.  _ Might as well just stay out here, then, _ Geralt decides, making himself comfortable by leaning against his door, crossing his arms over his chest, and closing his eyes.  _ In case he needs me. _

Three a.m. comes and goes. The sun is threatening to rise when Geralt’s eyes snap open and he’s halfway to his feet, on high alert, before the remnants of his dream have fully dissipated. 

It was a nightmare, Geralt knows-- certainly not the worst he’s ever had, but enough to elevate his heart rate and shock him awake. Jaskier was in it. The more Geralt tries to remember why, the fuzzier the details get, but the feeling the dream leaves him with stays, strong as ever, beating in rhythm with his speeding heart in his chest. Jaskier was in danger, and Geralt was desperate to save him. 

_ Not like any other contract I’ve ever had, _ he thinks drowsily, settling back in front of his door.  _ Certainly, this is unlike anything else.  _ He _ is unlike anyone else. _

A few minutes tick by. The first few rays of sun peek through the sheer curtains at the end of the hall, and Geralt’s eyes snap open. 

Oh. 

_ Oh _ . 

Jaskier’s smile, Jaskier’s laugh, Jaskier’s eyes, more expressive than anyone he’s ever known, flash before him, and he knows. He  _ knows _ . 

  
_ Oh, shit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw gunshot/shooting: starts paragraph 140 w/the line "Jaskier trips over his own feet...", last mention of "shooter" in paragraph 151 starting with "'I can just stand up.'"  
> stay safe y'all <3 
> 
> ~
> 
> y'all!! i actually stuck to the one week update promise!! are u so proud :3
> 
> ty for (continuing to) read(ing)! hopefully i'll be back in another week.  
> pls lmk what u thought! comments make my day :D
> 
> EDIT: hey so uh. i have lost Any And All Motivation and am no longer updating this fic,,,,, life is a lot atm, my apologies!! hope y’all have a good day <3

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall! its another au, forgive me, but the idea appeared in my brain and i couldn't _not_ write it, yknow? 
> 
> hopefully updates weekly, but we'll see; might be faster, might be a bit slower, depends. ty for reading! comments make my day <3


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